Page 40 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
I think of Yelena, of her venomous smile, of the allies she still commands. I think of the old men in the pews, watching me claim something they believe should never belong to a Sharov.
Above all, I think of Talia. Of the way she stood beside me at the altar, jaw tight, eyes fierce. Of the way she looked at me when the world shook, unflinching, refusing to let go even when she should have run.
I wonder if I have made a mistake—not because I regret her, but because I cannot bear the thought of losing her. The danger is different now, sharper, more intimate. It is no longer just my life at stake. It is hers. And I am the reason for every threat that circles this house tonight.
It is too late. The vows are spoken. The ring is on her hand. She is mine.
As her breathing deepens, I let myself rest my palm against the curve of her hip, grounding myself in the certainty of her presence. I watch her sleep, every muscle in my body coiled for the next blow, the next betrayal, the next shot in the dark.
She is in danger because of me, but she is also safe, as long as I live. I promise her, in the hush between heartbeats, that I will not let the world take her from me.
Not now. Not ever.
The house settles around us, and I keep vigil, guarding my bride—my greatest risk, my only weakness, my fiercest joy—until the gray light of morning seeps through the curtains and the world demands we begin the fight again.
Chapter Seventeen - Talia
Sunlight creeps in, soft and tentative, painting the bedroom in shades of gold and gray. I wake tangled in expensive sheets, sore in ways that make me shiver when I stretch. For a moment, I lie there in the hush, trying to remember what peace felt like before I became the woman in Adrian Sharov’s bed, wearing his ring.
I turn my head and see the empty pillow beside me. No warmth. Adrian is gone.
A moment of relief. Then the memories crowd in: the blast, the smoke, the way he shielded me with his body, gun drawn, as if the world could end at any moment and he’d still stand between me and the fire.
I remember the weight of the vows, the iron band around my finger, the faces in the cathedral: some watching, some warning, none celebrating.
I sit up slowly, gathering the sheet around my chest. For the first time, I’m married. To a man I once dreamed of destroying. I glance down at the ring. It’s made of thick, gold.
It feels heavier than anything I’ve ever worn. My heart pounds. Someone wants me dead. The bomb wasn’t a random threat. It was timed too perfectly, too publicly, a message aimed not just at Adrian but at me.
Adrian’s men are stationed outside my door. They barely glance my way as I open it, but I feel the tension in their shoulders. They’re watching me, or for me. It’s hard to tell which.
I wander the hallways, quiet as a ghost, searching for something that feels like home. The mansion is vast, corridorslooping in on themselves, each turn revealing more stone, more wood, more guarded eyes.
I pass a room filled with ancient books and dust motes, a sunlit gallery with paintings of dead men and steely-eyed women.
I find the kitchen, empty except for a maid who won’t meet my gaze. I pour myself coffee, hands shaking, and wander back out.
The house is full of aftershocks. I hear men talking in low voices, doors opening and closing, radios muttering static. I try to catch snippets of conversation, but they stop speaking when I appear.
Silence rushes in behind me, thick and suspicious.
I climb the main staircase, the ring on my finger catching the light with every step. I tell myself I’m not scared. That I can survive this. Every step reminds me that I’m in someone else’s house, someone else’s world.
I hear raised voices from down the corridor. It comes from Adrian’s private meeting room, the one with the reinforced doors. I hesitate outside, the wood muffling the sound but not enough to hide the tension inside.
“She’s not one of us,” a man says, voice low and fierce. “This started when she arrived. The wedding brought trouble to our door. People talk, Adrian.”
Another voice, older, cracked with authority. “We don’t know where her loyalties lie. She could be working for them. You think it’s coincidence the bomb went off on her wedding day? You’re blinded by—” The word is cut off. I don’t know if it’s love, or something uglier.
Adrian’s reply is a growl, sharp and final. “Careful what you accuse my wife of.”
“She’s not your wife; she’s your weakness.” That voice stings. “If she betrays you, the whole house falls.”
The silence after that is different. It’s edged with threat.
I step back, pulse racing, not sure whether I want to burst in and defend myself or run until I can’t hear my name on anyone’s tongue. I hate how much the words sting. I hate how, even now,
I wish Adrian would storm out and find me, demand the truth from my lips, accuse me of all the things they fear. Instead, he says nothing.
